Somewhere in Harlem.

A Smoke-filled night club.

Somewhere in Harlem. 1920's.

Summer.

The mecca gathering of high class Negros on a Saturday night.

Laughter and Bourbon scents fill the air.

The band is stroking every known emotion a girl can think of.

The piano keys tickle Marjorie right down her spine and lifts her up out of her seat.

She floats like a leaf lost in the Autumn breeze.

Swaying her hips from one end of the dance floor to the other.

She turns men away one by one as they creep up behind the thunderous rhythms in her thighs.

They lose control of their senses when they inhale the secret fragrance hidden behind the earlobe of her right ear.

She never tells anyone the name of the fragrance she wears.

"Awe, baby I had this flown over from Paris", she lies.

She was there for one reason and one reason only.

Duke.

All dressed up she took the A-Train to Harlem just so she could see him.

What she would give to have is fingers tickle her keys.

With all she had in her she yearned to scat notes with him that couldn't be composed.

Truth be told she had a thing for a Jazz man.

She spent nights blowing Charlie Parker's horn in the storage room at The Cotton Club.

The music just hypnotized her.

Caused her to lose her good Christian girl teachings she learned in Mississippi.

She left Mississippi, her childhood memories, her Me-Maw and Grandpa Joe and followed Jazz right on the back of Raymond Edwards pickup truck all the way to New York City.

She saunters over to the bar.

Her red, high waisted dress, showing just the right amount of her butter cream skin, tight in all the right places, and causes everyone to stare.

She came with a mission. To get Duke's attention.

She would lay in her bed at night and make love to Duke on vinyl.

Tonight she wanted him in the flesh.

"Scotch on the rocks, please."

She sips and waits.

Sips and waits.

Waits and sips.

She waits.

He never shows.

Somewhere in Harlem.

Duke never showed.

Mrs. Thursday :)

She's a crowd pleaser.


Everyone's favorite.


Or at least that's what she's convinced herself.


She's fancy.


Every week a new do.


With the added piece of blue, purple, or green track for "pop".





She prides herself in her shoe collection.


Can't afford Louboutins,


So she settles for Jessica Simpson's


And paints the soles red.





She's in love with the dude that gathers the carts at the grocery store.


He loves her too.

But he stutters,

Has no money,

And works at a grocery store.


Her image is too important to her to love the "grocery cart guy".


Where she's from and who she is embarrasses her.


She has a plan of escape.


She sleeps with city-wide officials.


She loves "politicking".


Throws back a shot of Tequila and drunkenly convinces herself he's going to leave his wife for her.


"Mrs. Mayor it does have a nice ring to it", she says repeatedly to herself in the mirror.


Thursday night is their night.

She accepts the Thursday night intimate invasions as a down payment on her future wedding ring.


But she constantly wonders why he never looks at her face.


See, Thursday nights are done from behind.


"I never want to make eye contact" he told her when they started.


Every Thursday at 11:30 pm he faithfully invades her space like Poland on Nazi Germany.


She is intrigued by his militarism.


He stands at attention and she salutes him in the nude.


Because secretly, she always wanted a reoccurring role on Army Wives.



When he's done he leaves an envelope on the pillow and says, "You done good, girlie. See you next Thursday."


No kiss goodbye.


No cuddling or how was your day?


She lays on her stomach and rests her chin on her hands.


She doesn't want to smudge her red lip on the white feather pillows.


She's grown to love the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.


She reaches over and grabs the envelope.


On it written in what she considers the manuscript of power is: "To: Mrs. Thursday :)"


She's been labeled Mrs. one-day-of-the-week.


She smiles. She loves her nickname.


Inside of the envelope is a note and two crisp $100 bills.


She excitedly hops up and grabs her purse.


She pulls out another envelope which reads: "Wedding Fund"


She adds her newly earned Benjamin's to her stash.


She collapses back on the bed in sheer bliss.


She begins to read the note: "Happy 16th Birthday girlie, you done good. Love, The Mayor."


She kissed the note as if she were kissing him.


"One day" she says, "I'll be your Mrs. Everyday-a-week."

Summer's Prayer

Just past dusk, the summer heat bows down to say it's prayers to the most high.

Leaving bodies drenched in perspiration, with the stench of anxiety.

The sky turns purple haze. Relaxed. Still. With promise for better days.

Down the street is a clutter of enlivened teens who find comfort in summer's liberty. Unconfined. No responsibilities. Educational routine on intermission or so they think, because learning never ends.

They gather in the cadence of prose, cyphering around the metaphorical prism of Lil Wayne lyrics.

They become instant mathematicians as the dice hit the pavement and they divide their earnings at the next re-up.

They develop keen minds as unmarked vehicles survey the neighborhood. Decision makers: When to run or when to assume the position.

They face dilemma head on when the decision to run causes their friends to be cradled by their untimely expiration date.

Statistical overload.

The neighbors say, "he was too young to die"...he...Because the name his mother gave him can't be defined.

Please Summer while you say your prayers say a prayer for the teens down the street.

Lost in your liberty.

Pray for their safety.

So they can learn the lessons in the beauty of the seasons changing.

This Aint No...

Let me make this clear to you...





I HAVE OPTIONS.





This ain't no self-righteous, independent woman rant.





I'm not gonna be running around butt naked in the woods, burning my bra in a bonfire, and yelling "I AM WOMAN HERE ME ROAR!"





These are the facts. Hard evidence.





I HAVE OPTIONS.





CHOICES.





I was born into a family of deep thinkers.





My father, changed the lives of thousands of inner city youth in the Washington Metropolitan Area.





My mother a rhetorician at best. Humanitarian in the flesh.





Their microcosmic connection, intertwined with the genealogy of generations of men and women who thought deeply...





There I was created, meticulously designed by God.





I am blessed by default.





This ain't no feminists ideology.





I won't be rallying the troops on Capitol Hill, with t-shirts that read: "Pussies Unite", while lobbying congress to take abortion out of the Health care Bill.





This is truth. The honest to God truth.





I HAVE OPTIONS.





I HAVE CHOICES.





I CHOOSE to...





Love without expectation.





Make the most out of what I am given.





Give my last to those in need.





Entrap myself in education.





Fight for what I believe in.

Die for the love of the Arts.

Never be ashamed of who I am.





Keep my legs closed.





Keep my heart open.





See the world.





And most importantly put God first in all I do.





This ain't no motivational speech.





I'm not going to cry on Dr. Phil's couch while he tells me some philosophical BS about being in touch with my feelings.





I must choose wisely.





Because I HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY.





Look at me.





Walking around here with my head held high.





Standing on the backs of those who fought and lost their lives so that I might have a choice!


Jim Crowed to death.

KKK American terrorism at it's best!




How dare I not make the most of the opportunities so many died fighting for?





That is MY history. Sweet liberty.





This aint no revolutionary ideology.





I won't be Jesse Jackson crying on Election Day after jealously, publicly humiliating my "brother" on national television.





I HAVE OPTIONS





I HAVE CHOICES.





I HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY.





This is reality. My reality.





So please don't be confused.





There is nothing average about me.





Watch how you address me.





I am favored.





Fearfully yet wonderfully made.





I won't let any minor obstacles stop me.





My fears don't define me.





My tears won't break me.


My ancestors walk beside me.




My choices are the bridge towards fulfilling my promise.





Consider yourself blessed to know me.

Hot. New York City. 4th of July.

New York City.

4th of July weekend.

92 degrees.

HOT AS HELL.

You know how the city is. Over crowded, overly busy, overtly in hustle mode.

But being around the ones you love makes you feel like it's just you and your goons taking over the city.

Nobody else counts. Nobody else matters.

Except...

Her.

Red bone. Big Titties.

I wanted to put "Long hair, thick red bone..."

But she's not thick and she doesn't have long hair.

She's plain. Ordinary.

The other woman.

She made her presence known in New York City without even being there in the flesh.

For that I must give her a round of applause.

Though she's not physically baaaad she's one baaad B.

She popped her red bone, big titty...self...right up in our relationship.

Conveniently escorted by your chivalrous gestures.

And they say chivalry is dead....

We argue about her in Brooklyn.

In Queens.

In Manhattan.

On the HOT and crowded Q transferring at Atlantic Avenue.

4th of July weekend.

The time where kissing under fireworks declared our relationship's independence.

"My Country Tis of Thee..."

Better yet my country the land of the broken...

Broken homes and dreams.

Broken pockets and regime.

Don't forget the broken hearted.

Cuz it's HOT in New York City.

Unbearable heat.

So hot my sweat collides with my tears.

I don't know where my sweat begins and my tears end.

But I do know I loved you.

You wiped my eyes in Brooklyn Heights.

Told me I was the only one for you.

New York. The Empire State.

A city you love or hate.

Dreams live there.

Dreams die there.

One HOT weekend...

4th of July, 2010